


Tumblr Prompts (2021)

by gingerteaandsympathy



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blind Date, Camping, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Bliss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Jealousy, Married Couple, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Surprise Kissing, Temporal Paradox, Tumblr Prompt, will start short and get longer later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 13,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29978745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerteaandsympathy/pseuds/gingerteaandsympathy
Summary: the return of the tumblr prompts. because rose tyler can never get enough love and kisses.
Relationships: Eighth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Eleventh Doctor/Rose Tyler, Malcolm Tucker/Rose Tyler, Metacrisis Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Ninth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Twelfth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31





	1. Wiping Away Someone's Tears: NineRose

**Author's Note:**

> i've been posting these on tumblr, but forgot to archive them here! so, please don't mind me playing catch-up. i will probably be starting a separate one of these for my fremione prompt-fills, for anyone interested.
> 
> prompted by: anonymous  
> rating: g  
> length: 300 words

When he finds her, the sky is the colour of eggshells. A soft dawn, deceptively beautiful. And she is sitting at the top of the hill. The crown of her head glows gold over the tall, swaying grass; her face is buried in her hands.

It seems wrong to find the picturesque in this sorrowful scene.

“Rose.” He lets the breeze carry his voice for him, toward her hunched form. He doesn’t say anything else; to implore her to come inside would be pointless.

Down in the valley, the church bells start to ring. The same sound that’s greeted them every morning, noon, and night since they landed here. A hundred days, with no hope of reprieve.

He barely hears them anymore, but they’re clearer out here, in the open air.

Finally, Rose lifts her head.

Her tear-tracked face turns toward him, cheeks a lurid pink. “I can’t bear it,” she tells him. The words rasp out from a throat abused by tears, but they’re clear. “I thought I could, but I can’t. Doctor.” Her voice breaks around his name, like it’s a prayer offered without hope of answer. “I want to go _home._ ”

The words trigger the collapse; her face contorts, sorrow and fear in every tensing muscle, arms wrapping tight around her vulnerable belly. The pain of it pulls him to his knees. Arms reaching. He takes her face in his palms.

“I know.” He is the one who brought her here. This is his fault, and he aches with the knowledge. “I know,” he soothes, brushing away tears with his thumbs. “I’ll find a way.”

He pulls their faces close, until they are sharing the morning air that’s so thick with dew and the damp of her tears. Leaning close, his forehead rests against hers.

“I _promise_.”


	2. Squishing Their Cheeks: TenRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: deardiary17  
> rating: g  
> length: 300 words

“Rose, will you do the thing again?”

“What thing?” Rose looked up from her magazine long enough to determine that nothing much had changed in the last four hours.

They were still stuck on the moon—or, _a_ moon. She wasn’t sure. And the Doctor was still pacing about the console room, raking his fingers through his hair until it resembled the spikes of an aggravated hedgehog. Still glaring petulantly at the time rotor, mumbling either at it or at himself—it was impossible to tell.

“The _thing_ ,” he offered by way of clarification. And then he huffed. “The face thing. With the cheeks and the fingers and… you know?”

She _did_ know, actually.

“Oh, that.” Trying to stifle her grin, Rose tossed aside the technicolor magazine and hopped to her feet, gamely approaching the jittery Time Lord. “Bring your head down a bit,” she softly commanded. For a moment, there was a breathless tension as he obeyed, his face lowering toward her. Her world was overtaken by freckles and dark brown eyes.

There was no moon. No problem.

But that wasn’t what he was asking for; the leap of her pulse, the catch in her breathing, all of that was _her_ responsibility, and she set it aside as her hands rose to cup his cheeks.

And then, she _squished._

This—whatever it was—was more of an interpretive art than an exact science, so she took some liberties: squeezing the fleshy part of his cheeks, rubbing up and down, patting his face gently. His inhuman skin was extra stretchy, pliant in a way that hers wasn’t. Pleasant to touch. She squished and petted until his skin was pink and she had her bite her tongue to stop from giggling.

“Better?”

The Doctor was smiling, too. “Yes. _And_ I think I have an idea.”


	3. Kissing Knuckles: NineRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: deardiary17  
> rating: g  
> length: 500 words

At the end of the night, he takes her hand in his, because to do anything else would be to leave the want inside him burning, voiceless and undying.

And it is already too much, to see her day after day in sun-drenched drawing rooms, her hair like spun gold, blushing silently at her mother’s incurable inanity. To see her across ballrooms, on the arms of men who are not worthy of her, and yet who are infinitely more worthy than he, if only because they do not _burn_ like this.

Outside, the carriages gather, and he can hear them closing in—the horses’ heavy steps, the chatter of coachmen about the winter weather. Now is his only chance.

He seizes her fingers, the friction of her silk gloves against his leather ones causing an exquisite hesitation, stopping her from passing out of the room and out of his reach. When she looks up at him through a tangle of dark lashes, her eyes glimmer with curiosity.

“Doctor?”

"Miss Tyler," he manages, the syllables of her name suffused with urgency. "Might I speak with you?"

For a moment, she hesitates. But, mercifully—

"Of course, sir.”

And then he is being guided like a child, ushered out of the foyer and into a smaller room: a study, every available surface adorned with books—but he cannot observe more than that. His every thought hangs on the fragile, indecorous touch of their fingers, which she has not seen fit to curtail, even as she turns to face him once again.

She is waiting.

"Miss Tyler," he begins before breaking off. " _Rose._ "

Her name, wrenched from his tongue, weaves a spell over them both: cloaking them in intimacy, a hush that descends like the falling snow.

"John," she echoes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?" Her voice is soft, coaxing, and he knows what she wants him to say: that the time has come, that he has made enough of himself, that they don't have to wait and hide and lie any longer, in violation of her honest nature and earnest heart's desire to please her mother.

He knows what she wants, because he wants it, too. And yet, he cannot give it to her. Not just yet.

His shoulders slump beneath his coat, eyes falling to their linked hands. "Only that I love you," he sighs, feeling her shifting closer—always, her urge is to comfort him in his failures. He draws her hands up, close to his lips. The soft scents of silk and lavender are a balm to the burning. "And that I am sorry to make you wait so long."

He presses his mouth to her knuckles, lips catching at the silk, depositing a kiss that surely flays them both. He hears her breath catch, and it is music.

Rose laughs breathlessly. "I would wait a dozen lifetimes, and you know it."

"All the same,” he says, “I will not make you wait much longer.” And it is a vow.


	4. Kissing Someone's Cuts/Bruises/Scratches: EightRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: sunnibits  
> rating: t (for mention of blood)  
> length: 400 words

When the Time War ended, she was there.

This isn’t recorded anywhere—not in any history books or memory drives. There is no proof that, when the man who no longer wanted to call himself the Doctor stumbled out of his TARDIS, bruised and bleeding and void of all sense, she was there to hold him.

No one could’ve known, because there was no one _to_ know.

Or to care about one fading being in the midst of the fallout.

And he _was_ fading; that much was obvious when his feet hit the earth and his legs just buckled, folding him up into something smaller than himself, as if it could save him. His head hung low, dirty curls falling into his face. His ragged breath was the only sound for miles.

Except for footsteps.

He would remember it all as a hazy dream. First, the feeling of a hand—small and blazing against his cheek, lifting his face. Through his unfocused eyes, it was like staring into the sun. A river of gold, pouring out over him. But the details took shape as the sun leaned in closer, features forming from pure light.

More fingers, brushing over his brow; he tried to warn her—she’d be covered in blood—but he had no words. No air to speak them.

“Doctor,” she said, and her voice was sad. “I’m so sorry. I came as fast as I could.”

He didn’t know how to tell her that it was all right. If she’d come any sooner—all gold and shining—he might not have been able to do what he had to. He couldn’t imagine destroying anything at all, after seeing her.

He blinked, and the world was shifting again. Tilting.

He was falling, and she was catching him.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. He felt a kiss on his forehead, searing and smooth. It was a pain like being cleansed. Her mouth came away bloody. “It’s almost over. You’ll regenerate. You’ll regenerate.” She repeated it several more times—like a mantra. Like she was trying to believe something.

She kissed his cheeks, then his eyelids, which he couldn’t remember closing. It all ached, but sweetly. That was how it felt, in the end—sweet.

He knew he didn’t deserve it, but he was grateful anyway.

When he woke up again, he was different—hungry for something. And he was alone.

But when the Time War ended, she was there.


	5. A Hug After Not Seeing Someone For A Long Time: ElevenRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: saecookie  
> rating: m (for language)  
> length: 500 words

Through a series of texts in a convoluted chain—Rose to Jack to Mystery Guy and then back again—she asks him to meet her _outside_ the restaurant. Mainly because, if he turns out to be a creep, then she can just pretend she's someone else and keep walking.

Low of her, maybe. But she's not about to sit through another date with a guy who thinks that her lack of a degree means she'll be impressed by his.

The agreed-upon signal: red hats. Hers is a beanie, because who _actually_ owns an array of coloured hats for this sort of occasion? She’s not bloody Jackie O.

Really, it's absurd to be doing something like this, in this day and age. There are dating apps she can use. The blind date is outmoded, and she knows it—but something in her hopes. Always hopes. _Please, God, let him be nice._

She's mulling over her future mistakes as she turns the corner—and there it is. A red beanie on a gangly body, hovering outside the restaurant. His chin is angled down—obviously looking at his phone—but she can pick out the more distinctive features even at a distance.

"Jamie?"

He looks up as she approaches, responding to the sound of his name, and suddenly, Rose feels as if she's six years old again, mashing crayons into colouring pages. His face is just the same: hazel eyes receding under a heavy brow, jaw working in constant thought. And how he lights up at the sight of her—that's the same, too.

"Rose," he cries, opening his arms as if for a hug, only to notice their near-identical red beanies and gesture at them. "Ah! So, you're my super secret, very sexy date!"

"Jack has _massively_ oversold me, then," she laughs. "I can't believe it! What are the odds—a blind date with the girl you already fake-married in reception."

Jamie shakes his head in similar surprise, smile splitting his cheeks. "The girl who fake- _divorced_ me, remember."

Rose thinks of herself as too cosmopolitan to blush, but her cheeks aren’t getting the memo as he steps in closer, waiting for approval—which she _absolutely_ gives—before swallowing her in a hug. He smells _amazing_ , which should be illegal considering he’s seen her eat glue. And his hands on her waist are surprisingly long-fingered and steady.

He is, in a word, absolutely-fuck-off-gorgeous.

Five-year-old Rose would be proud of her future self—a rare achievement.

"In my defense," she collects herself enough to say, "I was very into the concept at the time. I would've divorced anyone." And she’s not lying: her Mum _had_ watched a lot of Jeremy Kyle back then.

"Well, at least I get a second chance," he quips as they pull apart. Her hands want to linger, but she takes comfort in the way he can't quite release her either. He looks down at her like she's something impossible. "Hungry?"

And—yes, she's _definitely_ blushing now, there's no denying it. She grins at him, tongue poking out through her teeth.

"Ravenous."


	6. Playfully Biting Someone: TuckerRose (TwelveRose)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: lotsofthinkythoughts  
> rating: m (for language, because it's tucker)  
> length: 500 words

She knows he hates these things.

The ballroom, large as it is, can’t contain the conflicting scents of perfume and cologne, of rich dishes and strong coffee. And underneath it all, the sour tension—people making deals over flutes of champagne, making enemies atop unused dance floor. It all reeks with stress and prevarication, and she can see—just from the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head—that it’s driving him _spare._

She’d promised to be on her best behaviour tonight. But the room is _teeming_ with promises, poised to break. And breaking this one—well, it’s for the greater good.

Keeping Malcolm Tucker happy is in _everybody’s_ best interest.

Excusing herself from her own dull conversation, Rose threads her way through the crush on careful footsteps. Every shiny, patent leather shoe is a threat to the hem of her gown, and to her balance.

She doesn’t recognise the people he’s with—never a good sign. Probably some fat cats who cornered him in the hopes of deregulating their particular slice of the global economic pie. They’re all the same.

Rose slides up beside him, looping her arm through his.

He looks down at her in surprise, but there’s a pleased twinkle there. He turns back to the gathered men with a slightly-softened countenance. “Gentlemen—my wife, Rose.”

She tries not to blush at the word— _wife_ —it’s still so new, and it still makes her heart do odd flips in her chest.

Instead, she offers an apologetic smile. “I’m _so_ sorry, but I need to steal my husband away for a moment.” And then she’s tugging—hoping he won’t make her explain—and they break free of the circle with barely a murmur. She walks purposefully toward the exit, hoping the look on her face will deter potential hangers-on from approaching.

Mercifully, they escape the ballroom.

Noting her brisk pace, Malcolm lowers his head, whispering, “Where are we going?”

“No idea,” she admits—right in time to spy a door off to the side of the hotel lobby, labeled _Cloakroom._

She grins to herself. _It’ll do._

With barely a glance at the empty lobby, she tugs the door open and pushes him through.

Inside, the air is close with the scent of damp wool and fur.

“You’re a fucking menace, you know.” Malcolm’s got a look of amusement on his face, belying the lingering tension in his shoulders. It’s _that_ she wants to get to—to ease it out of him, bringing back the man _she_ knows: the one who licks Nutella off of spoons and holds her hand during films.

It’s for the good of everybody, but it’s also—a little bit—for her.

So, she kisses him. Once, twice, brushing over his jaw, her hands resting on his shoulders. She nips him with her teeth—just a playful bite, but he exhales sharply through his nose, and she feels the strain easing. Leaving.

“It’s why you love me,” she tells him.

When his hands fly to her hips, warming her through thin silk, she knows it to be true.


	7. Giggly Cuddles: TenRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: anonymous  
> rating: t (for inebriation)  
> length: 300 words

Under the mountain of blankets, the Doctor was almost a human temperature.

Or maybe it wasn’t just the blankets—maybe it was the way Rose had looped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest, flushed and warm through the cotton. Sleepy heat radiated from her like a furnace, and it was easy to let it sink into him.

“Doctor,” she murmured, throat raspy from all the karaoke she’d done earlier. And all the alcohol. “I have a question.” The _question_ part of her sentence came out rather slurred, and he grinned fondly into her hair.

“Ask away.”

Rose cleared her throat a little, and he reached over to the nightstand for her water, from which she took a long, eager drink, lips smacking happily when she finished. He took the empty glass from her, lest she drop it into the mass of duvets and never find it again.

When her eyes blinked open, they were slightly clearer. Sparkling with a dangerous light, in fact.

“Well, are you ticklish?”

“Am I _what?_ ” he evaded, eyes widening. Why on _earth_ would she want to know that?

He got his answer when her hands—previously resting so innocently over his ribs—began to scrabble mercilessly at his sides. He scrambled to get away, but she was devilishly persistent, his Rose, and when she found the spot—just between his seventh and eight ribs—she honed in on it, taking his sudden rush of laughter as victory.

He was prompted to retaliate, of course. With _extreme_ prejudice. Rose’s giggles floated into the air like so many bubbles.

Squirming, she rolled away from him, ceasing her attack. But it was too late: their limbs were hopelessly entangled. As they lay there, spent and laughing, the Doctor thought there was wonderfully little chance they’d ever get free.


	8. An Incredibly Loud And Painful High-Five: TenRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: alwaysdramatizing  
> rating: g  
> length: 200 words

Mickey heard the sound from all the way across the ship. Like a gunshot, almost, or some other sound effect in a _really_ cheesy movie.

But his _life_ was a cheesy movie these days: aliens, spaceships, monsters and madness. You never knew what was coming.

So, naturally, he hit the ground running.

“What’s going on?” he cried, sprinting toward the console room, pausing to pick up what _looked_ like some sort of wrench. A good bludgeoning tool. “Rose! Doctor!”

Mickey went skidding through the doorway, his socks catching on the grating, only to find—

Nothing.

Just Rose and the Doctor, cradling their hands and giggling. Rose, grinning at the sight of him, lifted her hand, waving. Her palm was bright pink, like she’d hit something.

Mickey sighed. “You were practicing your secret handshake again, weren’t you?”

Her answering nod was very, very guilty. “We’re trying to get the last bit right.”

Rolling his eyes, Mickey dropped the wrench—or _whatever_ the damn thing was—to the grating, where it gave a loud _clang._ Rose jumped, and he might’ve jumped with her, except his ears were still ringing from the veritable sonic boom of their high-five.

“You two,” he lamented, “are _complete_ children.”


	9. Back Hugs: TenRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: anonymous  
> rating: g  
> length: 300 words

He’s been standing at the door to their cell for _hours_ now, and the whirring of the sonic has long since started to fade into the background, overcome by other, more awful noises: the rattle of chains, for a start. The wailing of suffering other prisoners.

She’s been trying to shut it out, but it’s hard—especially once the sonic starts to stop and stammer.

“D’you ever need to charge that thing?”

“Yes,” the Doctor clips out. “Every four thousand hours, give or take.” The sonic gives a particularly warbling whir.

Rose has to swallow back her anxiety. “And… how many hours has it been?”

Her answer comes in the form of a tragic-sounding chirp, and a cessation of all whirring.

The Doctor stands, still and silent as the sonic itself, with his hand on the door for a very long moment. “About four thousand,” he finally says, voice as heavy as she’s ever heard it.

She doesn’t have anything to say to that.

His swallow is audible. “This is my fault.”

Actually, this whole trip had been doomed from the start. From her bench in the cell, knees drawn up to her chest, she can see that she _never_ should’ve let him leave the TARDIS. It’s as much her fault as his; he’d given every sign in the world that he wasn’t ready to start running again.

That he wasn’t ready to face the prospect of losing her. Not again.

But still, she’d blindly followed, even though she _knows_ better by now: the Doctor is fallible—and she is stronger than he thinks she is.

The thought pushes Rose onto her feet, sends her across the concrete cell. She wraps her arms around his back, his duster rasping against her cheek. He is still.

“We’ll be okay,” she whispers. “I promise.”


	10. Smiling Into A Kiss: TenRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: anonymous  
> rating: g  
> length: 400 words

Blindfolded, with only her small hands to guide him, the Doctor made his careful way into the console room of the TARDIS. The toe of his plimsoll caught on the grating, and he would’ve tripped, but for Rose holding him steady.

“All right?” she asked, voice hushed—but even blindfolded, he could feel her enthusiasm. It radiated off of her in tangible waves, flexing her fingers around his arm. He wanted to shiver at the headiness of it; she seemed to smother his other senses, making him only aware of _her._

Nodding, he took another step forward.

The ground seemed to solidify under him, and together, they walked confidently through the console room, rounding the time rotor. Rose’s step was light—almost giddy. It made him smile.

“Okay, stop,” she finally commanded, and he sensed that he was somewhere down the ramp that led down to the TARDIS doors. “Do you trust me?”

How was it that he could _see_ the precise placement of her tongue between her teeth? That he knew just how it inflected her voice, when she was trying so desperately hard not to laugh?

He’d never imagined knowing someone like that before. Not in all his many lives.

“That depends,” he replied, “on whatever you’re about to show me.”

The giggle burst through, irrepressible and sweet. “I’m going to remove the blindfold.” And he felt the fabric of his own tie shifting around his eyes, deft hands plucking apart the knot. “Keep your eyes closed, yeah?”

He was further down the ramp than she was, and he could tell that her face was near his. The mint of her toothpaste, and the shampoo she used, and the salt-sweet smell of her skin: it was all so close.

“No peeking,” she whispered.

He was still smiling when her lips brushed his—so soft as to be nearly nothing, but still, somehow, _distinctly_ something. His hearts beat double-time inside his chest. “That’s not the surprise,” she laughed. And then she was gone, sailing past him, the sound of her shoes slapping both her feet and the grating his only clue as he turned with her.

And then, she pushed the doors open.

“Ta-da!”

Suddenly, it was all warm salt smell—ocean and palm fronds and clean, sunny air. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

Rose, in a bikini.

Behind her, the sea.

He couldn’t think of a better surprise.


	11. Kissing Someone's Cuts/Bruises/Scratches: TenRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: anonymous  
> rating: t (for mention of blood, mild description of a panic attack)  
> length: 400 words

“Keep your head still and your left arm elevated.”

“Doctor, I’m—”

“Rose,” he cuts in, “I need you to tell me your birthday.”

“April 27th.”

“The year, too.”

Her look of confusion is worrying. “Doctor, what are you—”

“The _year,_ Rose!”

“All right, stop shouting at me!” Her confusion is morphing into blatant anger, which gives him pause. Her arm, which she’s holding unnecessarily high above her head, has started to tremble with muscle exhaustion. “1987. Why are you so upset?”

“Because you’re hurt!” he bursts out.

Bandages. He needs bandages. The cut on her face is bleeding. And he needs to check her arm for bruising on the bone.

“Doctor.” Her voice sounds far away, and he wonders if he’s having a panic attack. He’s never had one in this body before, so it’s hard to know. But the tightening under his breastbone is a fair indicator. “Doctor, you’re scaring me.”

The tremor in her voice forces his attention suddenly away from himself and back to her—to where she sits, perched on the edge of the cot, her cheekbone bruising and blood smeared down past her lips, which bear a cut. Her arm has sagged back into her lap, and she looks close to tears.

“Rose,” he croaks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just got scared—I—” and then he’s down on his knees, not sure how he got there, taking her delicate wrists in his hands. “You’re just so _human,_ ” he tries to explain, his hearts giving another unsteady lurch of panic-pain. “You’re breakable. You don’t regenerate.”

He tries to concentrate on his breathing—on not scaring her anymore—but it’s hard to do with his pulses racing. Carefully, he lifts her arm to his lips, placing a kiss on her forearm; it’s already discoloring into a deep, dark purple, and the sight makes him nauseated.

“I can’t lose you,” he says, as steadily as he can.

When her hand curves around his cheek, pale but strong, the tightness in his chest begins to loosen. _She’s here. She’s all right._

“You won’t,” she whispers back. “You _won’t._ ”

Pulling her close, he kisses her split lip, tasting blood, mint toothpaste, salty sweat. It’s a confusing tangle of flavor, but it loosens the knot in his chest even further.

He feels her lips moving against his: _You won’t,_ she’s saying. _I promise. I promise._

He tries to believe her. He really does.


	12. Back Hugs: TentooRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: darthtella  
> rating: g  
> length: 200 words

She likes to dance while she does the dishes.

It's something he never would've known about her before—back then, the TARDIS always took care of the messes they managed to make. But it's something that, now, he can't imagine _not_ knowing.

Because she does it every time. Like it's habit.

She turns up the radio, and she dances.

Sings, too. Like she's happy.

Up to her elbows in soap suds, she's the most achingly beautiful thing he's ever seen, in this life or any of the ones before.

When he comes in from the living room, she doesn't notice him. Hips swaying, head bobbing, messy blonde ponytail whipping as she sings at the top of her lungs to the song on the radio—cursing when a lyric is just slightly different in this world. She doesn't hear his footsteps.

She doesn't jump when his arms slip around her, hugging her from behind. Rounded back to chest. She just changes her singing to easy humming.

The sound vibrates through him, into the hollow place that used to hold a heart.

He lowers his head onto her shoulder, blowing away an errant soap bubble that impinges on their space.

And he's happy, too.


	13. Chasing Someone's Lips After They Pull Away: TenRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: anonymous  
> rating: t (for mention of a brothel)  
> length: 500 words

"Doctor," Rose was gasping, "where are we going?"

The _truthful_ answer was that he had no idea, but that wasn't the sort of answer you wanted to give a dog-tired human after an hour of running to evade a praetorian guard. He could feel her pulse hammering in her fingertips.

They had to stop, but they weren't anywhere _near_ the TARDIS…

Out of the corner of his eye, coloured silks flashed. A doorway. Without a word, he redirected, pulling Rose hurriedly along this final stretch and—

They burst through the curtains.

It was an obvious loophole, now that he had a moment to actually _think_ about it. The inorganic guards were strictly prohibited from interfering in breeding activity of any kind, given the rapidly-dropping birth rates of—

"Oh my _God._ " A glance at Rose showed vibrantly blushing cheeks and a hand over her mouth. Contradictorily, she also appeared to be giggling.

"We're safe here," he tried to explain, beating down his rising blush with every bit of his self-control. "They can't come in, due to privacy law—"

But Rose wasn't listening; she was, in fact, snickering into her open palm, sounding painfully breathless. She looked almost on the verge of falling over with sheer giddy exhaustion. But there was also a lively, vivid humor in her gaze as she observed the room their narrow hall opened into.

Bodies, everywhere.

"You brought me to a brothel? Can Time Lords even—"

"Yes," he answered, though it was hardly relevant. "Not that I'm suggesting—"

"No, of course not." She snorted. "Not with primitive old me."

He wanted to argue with her—she wasn't _primitive_ so much as biologically incompatible—but his ears signaled that the guard was closing in. Their footsteps shook the earth. And he and Rose were still in the open hall, easily visible. They needed to blend in—to look natural.

With a deep breath, the Doctor pulled Rose toward him and into a sweeping, heady kiss.

He’d been a bit forceful, overestimating the resistance of her body, and the resulting unsteadiness sent him tripping back into the wall. As his back met stone, Rose collided with his chest, bracing her hands against him. But her lips were soft against his, burning with a human heat.

The kiss seemed to drive out all conscious thought, leaving him only with impulses that didn’t make any sense, that had no roots in reality. He clung to her.

Distantly, he was aware of the footsteps fading into the inconsequential distance.

When Rose broke the kiss—because it _was_ Rose, he realised in mortification, who got a handle on herself first—his lips chased hers, almost of their own volition. His head dipped, and she seemed to pause, hesitating like she wanted to give in. But then she was falling back onto her heels, panting for breath.

It was no longer clear whether that was from running, or from something else entirely.

“You’re _not_ primitive,” he thoughtlessly insisted.

Rose smiled, fingers brushing the lapels of his coat. “Apparently not.”


	14. Shiver: TenRose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: lizann5869  
> prompt: by a campfire + first kiss/confessing feelings.  
> rating: g  
> length: 900+ words

The night was a cold one. Even under the camp blanket, so kindly provided by one of their fellow hikers, Rose was shivering like a dried leaf, and no wonder—her clothes weren't at _all_ fit for an impromptu camping trip in the Canadian Rockies.

Her teeth were chattering so badly, in fact, that he almost missed her words. "This is all my fault." She sounded morose, really, as miserable as he'd ever heard her.

The Doctor attempted to cheer her up by nodding in an affirmative sort of way. "It's true. Can't take you anywhere," he said, poking at their fire with bustling pointlessness.

It was a good fire and would surely last most of the night, even without his meddling. But he didn't know what else to _do_ with a stick that was, quite sadly, devoid of marshmallows to toast.

Sparks jumped and, beside him, Rose huddled closer. He went on. "And do you know why?"

She huffed. "Why?"

"Because you're a do-gooder," he declared, quite matter-of-factly. "You see people out in the middle of the wilderness—you think, _oh, looks like they're in a bit of a tight spot!_ —and you just leap into action!" As he said "leap," he gestured widely, allowing his arm to stretch up and then around her hunched back, drawing her to him. She complied eagerly, pressing into his side, and he grinned. "You act first, think second."

"I thought they were drowning!" Rose piteously protested, burying her cold nose in one of his lapels. "I _had_ to jump in after them—or, well, I _thought_ I did." She gave a dull sniff that could've been derisive, or just a product of the chill. "It seemed reasonable, at the time."

"Do-gooder," he happily repeated. "I don't blame you, though. The yelling and frantic paddle-waving was rather… misleading."

Her only answer was another grumpy little sound, and the turning of her face almost completely into his chest. He was sure that the wool of his jacket must be itching her nose and cheeks, but the Doctor didn't have it in him to move her. Together, they were creating a little bubble of warmth, and it was all the better to get Rose safely through the night.

Though it would be a lie to say that was the _only_ reason he wanted her close.

He dropped his chin softly into her hair. "There's no need to sulk. It's admirable, how you put yourself at risk for other people. Me, I've got loads of chances, of lives—but you've just got the one…"

Lapsing into thoughtful quiet, he took a deep inhale of the sharp-sweet mountain air. Smoke, mossy stone, and the cold, clear night tangled with the scent of Rose's shampoo. At least her hair was dry again. And she wasn’t shivering so badly now.

"You're brave, Rose Tyler," he murmured.

Her voice drifted up, muffled. "Oh, _hush_."

"No, really! It's the thing," and here, he had to clear his throat, forcing himself to go on, "—well, one of the many, _many_ things—that I…"

The Doctor's arm tightened around her while his throat worked, fruitlessly. It wasn't the proper language, the right words, that he lacked—it was the courage. He felt her hand touch one of the buttons on his suit, toying with it, undemanding and soft.

"Yeah?"

He couldn't say whether she was seeking confirmation, or whether she was prompting him to go on, to complete his thought, but—

He took a chance, bracing himself with a deep breath. "It's one of the things that I… I love about you." Her reaction was small, and he only felt it because she was pressed so entirely against him: the sudden stillness in her fingers, the racing of her heart. For a long moment, neither of them moved; he wasn't even sure that they breathed.

Out in the inky dark, there was a shuffle like a body shifting in sleep. They'd been offered a spare tent, but he'd preferred that Rose stay close to the fire. Now, he was glad of the distance from the other hikers.

The dark all around was close. Quiet. He could hide his face in Rose's hair, and nobody would know that the girl in his arms made him wish he was braver.

But he couldn't hide long. He felt Rose's cheek brushing his coat, her head shifting beneath him, and he pulled back. Her hair caught the firelight as she looked up at him. Her long lashes looked even longer, even darker where they tangled with the shifting shadows.

His head felt suddenly, impossibly empty—like he was cut adrift from himself, as formless and flickering as the glow that touched her skin.

The Doctor heard himself speak as if from a distance. "Are you cold?" But he didn't know why he was looking at her lips when he said it. She shook her head. "Good," he managed. "That's good."

It _was_ good—he distinctly felt that _something_ was good, and it was building, right under his breastbone. Her face felt closer, or maybe he was falling forward in slow-motion, or maybe—

Their lips met.

Rose had lied. She _was_ cold—her body temperature cooled by nearly a degree—but soft. So soft, and warming as she opened to him. He could feel the heat of her breath, could taste the coffee they'd shared from a communal thermos, and it was intensely different from kissing her when he wasn't this him, when she wasn't her, because this felt… real. Like it was the first time. And so _easy._

Something unknotted itself in his chest.

Rose's hand had wiggled its way between his lapels, to warm her fingers against him, and she was smiling—kissing him, and smiling, and growing warmer all the time.

For reasons entirely unrelated to the cold Canadian night, the Doctor shivered.


	15. How Not To Enjoy A Garden Party: NineRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: saecookie  
> prompt: kissing at a party + hurt feelings.   
> rating: t (for language)  
> length: 3k+ words

The invitations, had the TARDIS crew had occasion to see them, had been suitably decadent: all cream stationery and gold leaf, the scent of rose perfume emanating most elegantly from the missive, as delicate and insubstantial as the Countess herself. They might've been _less_ gratified, however, to know that, though the fète _was_ being given in their honor, they had gone quite unmentioned amongst the inked explanations for why such an affair was being thrown on such short notice.

In fact, by the time the guests were actually gathered and the party was in full swing, the Doctor had almost been forced to conclude that the Countess would’ve taken _any_ excuse for a do.

She flitted and fluttered amongst the gathered like one of the winging birds residing in her expansive gardens, always with something witty to say, while Jack hung off of her arm like a leftover party balloon. The Doctor, gruff and inelegant as he apparently was, had barely been able to retain her attention for more than a few moments at a time—beyond, of course, her repeated thanks and professions of debt, usually followed by an offer of more cake.

Rose, however, was a different story entirely.

To say that Rose _glowed_ amongst the gathered French nobility—Rose, with her voluminous golden curls piled high on her head; Rose, floating cloudlike on a decadent swath of white cotton voile—was so massive an understatement as to nearly not be worth mentioning. _She_ had met with great success so far, being immediately beloved by everybody.

Of course, none of the gathered nobility had any idea that the Countess had first seen Rose in denims and trainers, soaked to the skin, after stepping out of the TARDIS and onto a sinking pleasure boat—or that the woman had disapproved _heartily_ of their untoward methods, even when they’d leapt to her rescue _._ She had mumbled something the TARDIS apparently refused to translate—something involving the word _putain_ —and Rose, ever kind and gracious and elementally human, had threatened to let “the old cow” drown.

She didn’t mean it, but it had been a tense few minutes, even discounting the sinking ship.

After that, though, Rose and the old Countess seemed to understand each other, and get on swimmingly.

He took a perverse sort of pleasure in thinking that all the gathered—the snobby Countess included—would've been suitably horrified to know there was quite a different version of himself poking about in Paris these days, sowing the seeds of a revolution, probably at this very moment. Ironically, that particular body would’ve been better suited to this swanky nightmare. But he'd always preferred _those_ sorts of parties, even then. Better drinks, for a start.

Still, though he had undeniably been found wanting, both Jack _and_ Rose seemed to clean up nicely enough that the Countess had no qualms about showing them off to every person with a title within a hundred miles.

Which meant he had to stay put and stay quiet, at least for a little while. He had to be content with his role as an onlooker.

Rose _did_ look lovely. The sash of yellow ribbon around her waist; the carefully-balanced hat with its delicate trimmings; the perpetual, pretty blush she wore as she received attention from the local aristocracy—all of it seemed, perhaps strangely, to suit her. He might not have figured it, being a Londoner by birth and a lively spirit by nature. But whether it was the sultry French air, the diaphanous dress, or merely the effect of so much gathered wealth, she seemed a most lively, decorous, and sociable version of herself

He _hated_ it.

“You’re sulking.” Jack had apparently disentangled himself from the Countess long enough to notice the Doctor, lingering just at the mouth of the hedge maze, contemplating going in and ridding himself of this celebratory misery. “Let me guess: you don’t like the drinks?”

“I _hate_ the drinks,” he answered, uncrossing and then recrossing his arms. “But I’m not sulking.”

Clearly dubious, Jack came to stand beside him, both of them looking out over the landscaping. The place hardly even looked like a garden—more like several-metres-wide tea service, with some grass and topiary set dressings. There was nothing natural, hardly even anything organic, about it. Once again, though, Rose caught his eye; even she was like a porcelain, painted version of herself.

She was being led to yet _another_ little table full of puffed-up, powdered nobles. The gentleman there—a tall, ungainly man with a nose that looked as if it had been broken and reset several times—stood and bowed, so quickly that he nearly threw the ladies’ tea off the table.

Rose’s smile, effervescent and sweet, didn’t budge, even as he bent to kiss her hand. There was no sign she needed rescuing.

“You know, I’ve always wondered if Time Lords had mind powers,” Jack mused.

He turned on the man with a quizzical look, like he was talking absolute rubbish—which, of course, he was. “What are you on about?”

“You know, like—mind powers. The sort of thing where you can kill a guy just by looking at him.” He took a sip from his sparkling glass. The contents were frothy and pale and it did not look at all appealing. “It’s an old myth. I never put much stock in it. But it seemed like you were trying there, for a minute.”

The Doctor scoffed. “Mind powers. What rubbish.”

“Well, Doctor, there aren’t a lot of other explanations for you looking at a man like that.” And then, leaning against one of the pillars indicating the start of the maze with _excessive_ nonchalance, Jack pretended to consider, looking at him askance. “Actually… there is _one_ explanation.”

“Belt up, Harkness,” he huffed.

“I mean, you could at least be subtle about it.”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Oh, so you admit there’s something to talk about?”

“I mean, honestly, this party is bad enough without you—”

“Why? Jealous because Rose is getting all the praise? Or for some other reason?”

“—wittering on about things you can’t _possibly_ understand.”

Jack shook his head, and it looked like he was about to start _smiling,_ which made the Doctor’s urge to hit him even stronger. But he was stopped by the sight of Rose, floating their way. Her brow was wrinkled, lips pursed in a look of confusion, like she’d been able to hear the spirit of their bickering from across the grounds.

Which wasn’t totally impossible; he’d never had an aptitude for talking quietly.

She picked up her skirts as she went, looking quite frustrated at the inefficiency of her gown. He tried not to notice how pink her cheeks looked, contrasted against the white, and the way the flush seemed to trail down her throat and over her chest, drifting beneath the gossamer ruffles at her neckline.

“Not a word,” he grumbled, nudging Jack hard in the ribs, which fortunately coincided with his effort to take a drink. He made a little sputtering sound that probably _shouldn’t_ have been quite so satisfying.

“Everything all right, you two?”

“Perfectly,” he answered, doing his best to give a somewhat convincing impression of a smile.

At exactly the same moment, Jack spoke, too. “He’s sulking.”

Rose’s eyebrows arched, but he could see the start of a smile on her lips. “Is he?” she asked, though she looked at _him_ when she said it, and he almost groaned. The last thing he wanted was to give an explanation for his bad temper—if he _was_ being bad-tempered, which he doubted. He was just… waiting patiently. To leave.

“It’s because everyone likes you better than him.”

The Doctor didn’t dignify the juvenile accusation with an answer; it was so far from being accurate that he didn’t even know how he’d refute it. But Rose’s eyes had suddenly flared with some strong emotion before narrowing tightly into an expression of irritation. “Really.” It wasn’t a question.

“Anyway,” Jack began, pausing to drain what was left of his drink, “maybe you can talk him back into good humour by the time I get back with more drinks. Or—” and he paused again, eyeing Rose significantly, “you could try another tactic. Just saying.”

Rose’s flush deepened. And then Jack sauntered away, leaving the two of them to stand in unnatural silence.

It didn’t last long. With an aggrieved sigh, Rose reached up to fuss with her hat. It was a delicate, straw thing—almost a parody of the humble woven hats worn by common labourers—accented with ribbon and pink and yellow blooms. He thought it looked more like a layer cake than anything sensible to keep the heat off, but made no comment. Regrettably, it suited her.

Everything seemed to.

It quickly became clear that she felt differently. “I _hate_ this thing,” she mumbled, fingers feeling around for something. “And there’s a pin digging into my scalp. Can you see it?” She stepped closer, bending her head towards him. The smell of roses and hair powder tickled his nose, but he leaned into it, breathing it deep. Under it all, he could still smell her shampoo. “Honestly, I don’t know how these people cope.”

“They cope,” he sniped, rooting through the carefully-arranged flowers in search of her pin, “by letting other people do all the damn work.”

Rose huffed a laugh. He could feel her warm breath against his sternum, where her face hung close. “Tell me about it. I haven’t been allowed to so much as pour my own tea. Though,” she grumbled, gripping him for balance as he ducked her head further, “why anyone is drinking tea in this heat, I don’t know.”

He thought he could detect the gleam of a pearl against the satin ribbon: surely that had to be something? His fingers felt clumsy and inadequate as he gripped the little bead and pulled. “What, you don’t like being waited on hand and foot?” he teased, speaking over her faint hiss. “Sorry, I’ve almost got it.” Finally, he managed to wiggle the pin a little further out, so he could get a good enough grip on it to pull it entirely away.

In an instant, Rose was whipping the hat off, giving him a face full of flowers in the process. But it was worth it to see the sheer _relief_ on her face. He realized now that her flush must be from heat rather than pleasure. Her shoulders sagged, and she suddenly looked much more like herself, even with the mountain of curls and the decadent dress and the pink-stained cheeks.

“Thanks,” she sighed, so gratefully that it sent a frisson down his spine. “And, for your information, I _don’t_ like being fussed over and waited on. It feels… wrong. My mum would say it’s giving me ‘airs and graces,’ probably.” Rose laughed as he shuddered, perhaps sensing the turn of his thoughts. How Jackie would handle an affair like this didn’t bear thinking about. She’d probably talk the Countess into a conga line or something. “I mean, it’s nice to feel… pretty, I guess, but…” She trailed off, turning to glance over her shoulder at the sea of pastels and pretty faces. “I don’t know. Doesn’t suit me.”

He slipped the hat pin into his pocket, thinking it might come in handy—for what, he couldn’t say. But it was a nice excuse not to look directly at Rose. He suddenly felt a bit ashamed for hiding off in the corner while she was presented to every bloody party guest. She clearly hadn’t been having the good time he supposed she was; in fact, now that he really considered it, she might’ve been covering for his lack of sociability.

“I think it suits you just fine,” he finally managed, clearing his throat. “I thought it might… suit you _too_ well, if you know what I mean.”

She turned back on him in a hurry, one thick curl springing over her shoulder. “No, I _don’t_ know what you mean,” she said fiercely. “Surely you don’t think I’d feel at home with these smug, rich arseholes.”

“Well, not _exactly_ —”

“Doctor, all they do is talk about their money, and their land, and how they plan to get more of it! They’re all vapid and shallow and posh and self-indulgent, and they do nothing for the world.” Her voice rose, and he would’ve glanced over her shoulder to see if they were being heard—hopefully Jack was doing an effective job of distracting everyone—but he was transfixed by her anger. He couldn’t look away; she was incandescent, her amber eyes bright and sparkling. Her hands flew to her hips, hat in one hand, crumpling the weave. “And you— _everything_ you do is for the world, for humanity. It’s not even a comparison.”

While he was glad to hear it—and really, he was, his hearts were beating double-time in his chest—he was _really_ starting to wish they’d gone into the maze to have this conversation. Somewhere he could privately indulge in his hunger for her praise, and where he could maybe, possibly reciprocate.

“Just because I can play nice with some swanky sods for an hour doesn’t make me Marie bloody Antoinette,” she snapped, “and you’ll have to do better if you want to drive me off.”

“I’m not trying to drive you off!” He hated how gruff, almost wounded he sounded. It made him want to step back, cross his arms—but he was still too eager to be understood. “I just know you have a taste for… for pretty things, pretty people…”

“Pretty boys,” she added, shaking her head. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? You’re _jealous!_ ”

“Why does everyone keep implying that?” he groaned.

“Because it’s true!” Rose advanced on him, pushing him closer to the mouth of the hedge maze. “You can’t get it through your thick head that I _want_ to be here— _with you_ —and that all the fancy dresses in the world won’t change that.” She jabbed him in the chest with her finger. “I choose to be with _you._ ”

He felt his back meet something solid and prickly. Hedge, presumably. And Rose was so close that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, like a solar queen deposited on earth. Her skirts brushed over his boots as she stopped, careless of the minimal distance left between them. Once more, his senses were flooded with the scent of flowers, the dazzling vision of her hair in the sun.

“Rose,” he tried, “of course I didn’t mean—”

She shook her head. “ _Idiot._ ” And then, without even a word of warning, she surged up onto her toes, throwing both arms around his neck in a gesture so sudden, so completely overwhelming, that he froze in surprise.

It was a rigid and unmoving pair of lips that she met when she first kissed him.

But his shock faded as quickly as it had come, and he was, all at once, gathering her close, heedless of her finespun gown and anyone who might be looking for them. All he knew was that she tasted like fizzing champagne—which he found he no longer minded; in fact, he quite liked the flavour. And then, she tasted a bit like ripe berries. And quite a lot like that _ridiculously_ sweet cake.

It was like being kissed by a sunshower. Rose was so sweet and bright in his arms, and where he gave a little, she took more, her tongue darting out inquisitively. Tasting, too. Probably the cake. The thought made him groan, and her lips buzzed where she swallowed it down.

They kissed so long and so slow that he was sure he made a shoulder-shaped space in the carefully-tended greenery. But he didn’t care. She could push him through an airlock and it wouldn’t matter, so long as he could keep his lips on hers.

When they finally broke for breath, Rose’s blush was back in force, and her lips were bruised a deep, petal pink. She ran her tongue slowly over her bottom lip, and he watched it move, even as he heard the sound of Jack calling their names.

“I’m pretty sure we’re in trouble,” he rasped, not even trying to stop himself smiling.

Rose laughed breathlessly. “I’m pretty sure I don’t care.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

He was so desperately close to kissing her all over again when Jack whirled around the corner, where they’d apparently gone just out of sight. A small mercy, all told. But Jack was huffing and puffing and moving at a decidedly indecorous speed. “Guys, we’ve _got_ to go. Rose, you’ve been compromised—as in, they’re currently planning your wedding.”

Her nose scrunched. “To who?”

Jack snorted, incredulous. “To _him,_ I’m assuming.” He gestured to the Doctor. “Or _whoever_ was making you gasp like that. Either way, time to go.”

Reluctant as he was to release Rose—a fact which surprised him, given how Jack was looking at them so smugly—he felt he had to at some point or other, unless they wanted to be subjected to an eighteenth century shotgun wedding. He loosened his hold on her waist, already missing the feeling of her body against his.

“Wait.”

His hands moved against his will, tightening around her ribs again. Both men looked at her, and she was smiling widely, tongue poking out from between her teeth. “What do you both say to a bit of burglary?” Deftly slipping from his grasp, Rose re-affixed her hat on her head, gesturing for her hat pin, which he promptly offered. “We’ve got a sonic screwdriver and a lock-pick,” she wiggled the pin impishly before stowing it in her hat, “and this lot’s got a _hell_ of a lot of stolen artefacts that need returning.”

Jack, when the Doctor glanced his way, was wearing a similar look. His grin was wide and white and unmistakable. “Ah, the old Robin Hood—steal from the rich, give back to the poor they stole their riches from. I _like_ it.” And, moving in synchrony, both Rose and Jack turned their heads to look at _him_ , faces beseeching.

He shook his head. “And here I thought you two were having a nice time with the gentry, unburdened by class consciousness. More fool me.” He shot a brief, apologetic smile down at Rose before saying, “Let’s go rob them blind, then.”

And, hand in hand, with Jack leading the way, they darted out of the maze, leaving the party—the gaping Countess and her third slice of cake, the disapproving nobility with their powdered wigs and wagging tongues, the whole _ridiculous_ affair—behind.


	16. Honey: TentooRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: darthtella  
> prompt: in the kitchen + for no reason at all.  
> rating: g  
> length: 700+ words

Tonight is another slow, lazy trickle of hours that he doesn’t know how to fill.

Outside, early spring rain meets the windows in tidal-sounding splashes. They've had heavy showers for days and it's too damp to go out, they've both agreed. He stands for a moment and watches the trickling against the glass.

He's never much liked rainy days.

And all those years of skipping through the boring bits has left him woefully unprepared when he asks Rose what she wants to do—since they can't go out—and she replies with “nothing.”

What sort of a word is that? _Nothing._ An absence of action, of substance. And really, it isn’t even true: she isn’t doing nothing. She’s buzzing with life, constantly breathing and shifting and pulsing with it.

When he turns from the window, she’s puttering around the kitchen in her little bunny slippers, putting the kettle on. She's selecting mugs from the shelf—his favourite, her favourite, because that's what they are now. People who have favourite mugs, and who each know the other's.

His is a novelty mug—something that ought to have been a joke gift, but that he'd bought for himself at a little touristy shop on their way out of Oslo. Shaped like a cod, with a plaque reading, "You've cod a friend in me." Except, of course, it says that in Norwegian.

He thinks. He won't know for a while. Not until the TARDIS is old enough to translate it.

Rose's favourite mug is a simple, solid pink.

None of that is nothing. It's everything, really. It's overwhelming how _everything_ it is, to have a flat and a mug and a Rose wandering about it, doing what she professes to be "nothing."

It overwhelms him on a daily basis, how much space there is to fill in his life. How much _time._

He realizes that Rose is speaking—asking him something.

"Doctor? I know you're trying to cut down on sugar, but do you still want honey?" Her voice is softly questioning, sweetening around the words _sugar_ and _honey._

They're still working out the pet name situation; he thinks he might like being called "honey," just from the way she says it. He might like being something sweet to her, like she is to him.

Do the English even use that endearment? He can't remember.

"Honey, please," he says, swallowing.

She opens the little jar, which is rounded and trigonal like a hive, and pours what looks like liquid gold generously into the mug. It's perverse, watching the greedy fish swallow all his honey. But when she lifts the jar and a bit extra overflows the lip, sticky and bubbled like amber, she swipes it away with her finger.

For a moment, it glistens under the kitchen lights.

And then she licks her finger clean.

_Nothing,_ she says. There's no such thing.

In several unconscious steps, the Doctor is across the kitchen and sweeping her into a kiss—fumbling the honey jar out of her hands—lifting her up onto the countertop. He hears the dull sound of her bunny slipper hitting the floor, having abandoned her foot, but it's unimportant. He elbows the intrusive mugs out of the way. The tea will turn tepid, and neither one of them will mind—he's already decided.

He kisses her and kisses her, while her hands brace against the countertop and her legs swing around him. While she settles and softens, one hand lifting to rake through his hair in the way he likes. He kisses her until both of them are breathing funny, because neither one has a respiratory bypass to engage, and until they both taste like the honey from her finger.

They part to breathe, so she says, "I'm not complaining, but—what was that about?"

He's grinning while he leaves two last smaller, sweeter kisses, on her top and bottom lip. "Nothing,” is the flippant answer. He picks up the honey jar, examining the shape and the label he doesn't recognize; the lid is still off, so he dips his finger in. For old time's sake. Rose wrinkles her nose affectionately. "Just wanted to, for no particular reason."

"Sure. All right," she chuckles, barely stopping him from pouring more of that earthy sweetness into the cod's open mouth. She's probably right. The water is too cool now for it to liquefy and melt properly.

She closes the jar up tight, setting it aside before letting her arms come to rest on his shoulders. Her fingers brush the nape of his neck, where the little manly hairs all stand to attention.

When she leans in close, still giving him that fond, knowing look that she seems to reserve for his oddest moments, she whispers, "I love you too, honey."


	17. Where It Has To Flow: NineRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: deardiary17  
> prompt: first kiss + in the water.  
> rating: t (for partial nudity)  
> length: 2k+ words

It’s late when they finally break out of their holding cell, bare feet shuffling quietly over the hard-packed dirt just outside of the compound.

“You owe me a pair of trainers,” Rose hisses, but only once they’re far away from the leaping shadows of barbed wire and searching spotlights. Her clothes are damp and mildewy, sticking uncomfortably to her skin, and she peels off first her jumper and then her t-shirt, tying them both awkwardly about her waist; there’s nothing to be done about the denims, except to roll them at the cuff. But the further they plunge into the trees, the more soft ferns brush at her ankles and bare shoulders, cool and soothing against her sweaty skin.

The Doctor makes no answer, except to grunt. He moves more quickly, walking ahead of her with purpose, like he has any more idea of where they’re going than she does. And maybe he _does:_ he’s the one with extra alien senses.

Not that they’ve kept them out of trouble. Their two-day stint in captivity is proof enough of that, as is the sour smell that sticks to Rose like a perfume. She picks up the pace, hoping he’s heading somewhere she can wash.

She’s starting to pant in earnest when the earth finally slopes beneath them, roots and stones forming terribly uneven stairs to an uncertain bottom. In the near-darkness, each bump is a stumbling-block in her way, and she trips up more than once until he finally stretches out his hand and guides her—gently, always gently—down toward the growing sound of running water.

She could follow it now, even on her own: they’re both operating on instinct, deeper than sight, more profound than sound. It’s an animal impulse they both share. But her stumbling stops, with his hand in hers, and it’s an easier descent.

All she can hear is the water and their breathing, until a river bend finally comes into view.

He releases her hand the moment the ground levels off.

“You should rest,” he says, voice gravelly. “Drink.”

The air is even thicker down here, heavy and verdant with the smell of mosses, and overhead, the canopy is fragmented, allowing bright white shards of moonlight to slip through. The water is slow, sluggish, but clear. It can’t be more than a few feet deep, but she walks toward it immediately, pausing to shed her shirts and hike her pant legs even higher.

Her desire to feel clean is far greater than her thirst. But the stiff denim won’t give, and with a huff, she glances back at the Doctor.

“Is it safe to swim?”

He nods, but he doesn’t look at her; his eyes are on the treeline, scanning the top of the ravine opposite them. The little pocket of light he’s standing in reveals that he’s _also_ barefoot. The sight feels strange, oddly vulnerable, and Rose forces herself to look somewhere else.

The whites of his eyes are winking in the moonlight. His mouth is drawn tight. It’s obvious that he doesn’t feel safe yet—he won’t, she’s sure, until they’re back safely inside the TARDIS—but her bones _ache,_ and the need to step into the water is a physical one, dominating her every impulse.

With a huff, she turns her back on him and begins to undo the buttons at her waist, tugging the stiff fabric down over her thighs. She doesn’t even want to _think_ about what knickers she’s wearing—but he’s not looking, anyway, so it doesn’t matter. Rose steps out of her denims and pretends this is just an ordinary bath. Nothing to be embarrassed of.

Trying to fold her clothes is a wasted effort, so she leaves them close to the shoreline where they’re easy to reach. And then, she begins to wade in.

The water is cooler than she expects, catching her breath in her throat, sending goosebumps shooting up over her legs. She freezes, barely calf-deep, and there is a scuffle along with Doctor's voice, sounding closer than she expects. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah," she manages, giving another little shiver. She tells herself that he’s still not looking, because the alternative is too much. Far too much. "Fine." Without looking back, she takes another step.

The stones are smooth under the soles of her feet, pebbles catching between her toes. It is a balancing act, getting deep enough into the current to reach hip-high water, but she manages without stopping again.

The moment she can, Rose drops into a crouch, soaking her sports bra through in a second. But the cool water on her shoulders, dancing around the ends of her hair, is an indescribable luxury. She sinks deeper, finally brave enough to look back at the Doctor.

He’s at the shoreline, looking out over the water. It’s too dim to make out his expression with any clarity—just the sharp edges and long planes of his face. It’s impossible to know what he can see, has seen.

“Coming in?” she calls, her voice sounding threadier than she’d like. She clears her throat and sinks even deeper, submerged to her chin. “The water’s fine.”

She feels a flush of triumph when she sees the sudden crooked flash of his smile.

He answers by sliding off his jacket.

Biting down on a grin, she politely averts her gaze and focuses on washing the dust and grime from her hair and skin. She dunks her head back into the water, running careless fingers through the damp strands, scratching deliciously at her scalp while the Doctor’s shape blurs and shifts in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t happen to have any soap in those pockets of yours, do you?” she asks, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn patch of dirt on her bicep. The muscle beneath it feels sore. _Everything_ feels sore, once she lets herself realize it. Sleeping on that badly-poured concrete has done nothing for her back, and the little brawl _before_ their arrest didn’t help either.

There’s a bit of splashing, and when she looks up, the Doctor is knee-high in the water, denims soaking steadily darker. “No such luck,” he says, shrugging. “Sorry.”

“S’alright.” She has to swallow thickly before she can say more. There’s too much distraction to be found in the breadth of his shoulders, the lines of his neck, the way the water shifts around him, rippling out and over her. “I can wait ‘til we’re back at the TARDIS to get all this off.” He bends at the waist and splashes himself, wiping the dust from his face.

Unaware of herself, she is abruptly standing, droplets rolling down her arms.

Some of the “this” she’s talking about must catch the Doctor’s eye, because he crosses the space between them in two long strides and reaches for her arm, lifting it fully out of the water. He peers down at it like it’s an ancient artefact he’s trying to understand the purpose of, turning it this way and that, examining the smudge. The fingers of his other hand run gently over her skin, trailing goosebumps behind them. “Rose,” he says, suddenly sounding urgent again. “That’s not dirt, that’s—you’re _bruised._ All over, you’ve got—” and then she’s stumbling forward as he pulls her closer, running careful hands up over her shoulders, feeling around her neck and her jaw, the back of her head. His hands, normally so cool, feel far warmer than the water.

“Explains why I’m so sore.”

“ _Sore?_ ” he bites out with an incredulous huff. “Yeah, I’ll bet you are. Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt? I would’ve—”

“What, gotten us out sooner?” She can’t help the touch of dismay in her answering laugh. “There was nothing you could’ve done. And I barely even knew until you pointed out.” It takes all her effort not to swallow again as his hand cups the edge of her jaw, damp fingers running across a sensitive spot. He tilts her head, just slightly, enough that he can see into the shadows.

Still so gentle. It makes her stomach swoop.

There’s probably another bruise, given how his gaze lingers there.

Looking up into his face is revelatory. There is a vulnerable sadness there that she wants to reach out and grasp in her hands, to soothe away like he’s trying to soothe her bruises. His lips are moving—forming the words, “I’m sorry.”

“Doctor, I’m fine,” she speaks. Her voice comes out in a whisper. His second hand has slipped into her hair, feeling around for knots and bruises, and her whole scalp tingles with awareness. She can feel her heart speeding up, feel the jump in her breathing that gives away exactly what she thinks of this proximity. Of the tenderness of his touch. Of him and them and everything.

Her hand flies up, without her permission, to cradle his at her jaw. “Really,” she says, “I am. It’s nothing a few days of rest won’t fix.” And then: “We’re fine. We got out.”

She repeats the words like a mantra in her own mind: _We’re fine. We got out._

But his expression doesn’t smooth away like it normally does when they’ve made it out of a bad scrape. There is something—something _else_ there, something that makes her head spin. The vastness of it.

“Doctor,” she breathes.

The space between them suddenly feels small and imminently crossable—like all it would take is an inch for everything to change.

So—she crosses it.

Leaving his hands to their occupation, Rose wraps both of hers around his midsection in a tight hug. It feels like the only action into which she can pour everything she’s feeling: the need to comfort, to be comforted. Skin to skin, he’s nearly as warm as she is. Softer, somehow, but more solid. The feeling of it draws an unprompted, soft sigh from her lips.

She rests her cheek against his solar plexus, listening to the steady sound of his hearts, wondering what’s different about this time from all the other times—knowing that it doesn’t matter, only that it _is._ This adventure, if one could even call it that, has opened some kind of door between them, and she’s chosen to step through.

His arms slowly shift into place, until he is holding her to him.

Around them, the water swirls, shaped in a small way by their bodies.

“You know, I don’t come along because it’s safe.”

She feels his chin drop softly to the crown of her head. “I know.”

“Worse is bound to happen, someday,” she goes on, trying not to smile as his arms tighten around her reflexively. “I mean, I almost got incinerated on my first trip. What are a couple of bruises after _that_?”

“ _Don’t,_ ” he says, the word pulled from between his clenched teeth. “I’m an idiot. That won’t happen again.”

But she shakes her head, trying to pull it back so she can see into his face again—to see that fear of loss there. That vulnerability. “You can’t promise that, so don’t.” His lips whiten as he presses them together. But she goes on, because she needs him to know. “Just promise you’ll always be there to clean me up after?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “I promise.”

“Good,” she sighs, and goes to lean into him again. “That’s all I need.”

She can almost believe it’s the truth, when she says it like this, with his arms around her.

But his hand rises: she can feel it snaking up her back and over her shoulder, to twine once more into her hair. His other hand follows, cradling her jaw with that impossible tenderness. Without pressure—with only a deep, unrelenting softness—he holds her head still, keeps her from hiding her face. A blush begins to steal over her cheeks at the scrutiny.

“Rose,” he says. It is a tone he reserves for using her name, she’s come to realize. It twists her stomach with the rightness of it.

It’s as she attempts to catch her breath that his head tilts toward her, blocking out what’s left of the light. The air is so still and thick that it feels like she’s swimming through it, but she meets him halfway, pushing up onto unsteady toes.

Her arms slide out over his bare shoulders, grateful for his solidity, because her hands are shaking.

She’s imagined kissing him before. But she’s never imagined doing it in her knickers, hip-deep in cold water, two days worth of dust still on some parts of their skin.

Strangely, though, the details are the same—the way he kisses slowly and inexorably, meeting her stroke for stroke, shaping her around him. She feels like the water, like the current, being changed.

Their bodies press closer and closer, until the water on them forms a seal, surface tension holding them together. Each breath tugs on her skin, and she’s prickled all over with goosebumps by the time they part for breath.

For a moment, they can only look at one another. An awareness of what they’ve done grows and grows, until finally, his forehead lowers to meet hers. His breath is a sigh, and she wants to swallow it down.

“I promise,” he says. His hands are soft on her body. “I promise.”

And she wants to believe him, so she does.


	18. A Paradox, A Promise: NineRose & TenRose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by: ejunkiet  
> prompt: nine & rose & ten, plus some tea.  
> rating: g  
> length: 1.5k+ words

She’s quite sure she loves them both, despite the complications.

Which is why she tries—sincerely tries—to maintain her calm when they start arguing about the best plan to recover… well, _her._ It’s something she’d never have considered possible before boarding the TARDIS: the idea of existing in multiple iterations, across multiple times, all at once. But now it seems obvious.

_“Happens once, just once and it's gone, it's finished, it'll never happen again. Except for you.”_

Everything is in flux around the Doctor.

_“You can go back and see days that are dead and gone a hundred thousand sunsets ago.”_

And people, too. She’s never thought of it before—that she can be both now and elsewhen, both dead and alive, with a powerful, improbable simultaneity. That he can be that, too. The thought is enough to distract her as she pours tea into three mugs.

She only prepares the two cups; she doesn’t know how the other takes his. The lack of information feels _wrong._

The other her—the version of her that is lost and needs finding—would know.

The Doctor— _her_ Doctor, the one wearing leather and a scowl—suggests a straightforward approach in his usual domineering way, his voice carrying over the sound of the hissing steam and bubbling water. “You need to jump forward and wait for her,” he insists. “Unless you want all of our memories to start unraveling. You can’t go around asking every one of us if we’ve seen her. The paradox—”

The other Doctor cuts him off with a sudden, snapped word. “ _Don’t._ Don’t talk to me about paradoxes. I need to find her. I can’t just—just _wait._ ” He’s raking his fingers through his hair when she turns to present him with tea, and the way he looks up at her is harrowing.

He looks pained and grateful and eager all at once, and yet, he’s careful not to touch her fingers. And his dark brown eyes slide away too quickly, like he can’t focus directly on her.

Her Doctor—because it’s the only point of separation she can really make—has no such qualms. When she sidles into the chair beside him, he throws his arm up over the back of her seat, bringing the blended scents of engine grease and leather with him. His fingers tangle with the ends of her hair. It’s a familiar feeling; he likes to braid and un-braid her hair when they watch telly or when he reads to her.

She wants to lean into him, into the touch, but she thinks—she can’t tell how, but she _thinks_ it might cause the other Doctor some sort of pain. Not physical, but no less real. So, she sits upright instead, hands folded around her own pink mug. “So, let me get this straight,” Rose begins, chewing on the side of her cheek. “She—that is, _I_ —got lost and now I’m… jumping through time and space to find you again?”

The other Doctor looks up at her. There are exhausted shadows under his eyes, pale purple, like the inside of some sort of flower, and she wonders if he usually looks like this, or if he’s just particularly badly off right now. He watches her like a ghost, like he can’t believe she’s real.

“Yes,” he rasps.

“And I’m finding… other… _versions_ of you?” Looking back and forth between her Doctor and the other one, she sees something like guilt on both faces. She’ll have questions later, that much they _must_ know. About how he can change bodies, how he can become someone else entirely. “But you said—when you meet other versions of yourself, it sort of… corrupts the memory, yeah? So, what are you hoping to find?”

He’s so restless, this other Doctor. Even more so than the man who sits beside her now. The contrast is extreme, with his hand so easy and gentle against her back. But the man across the table cannot be still: he runs a hand over his face, digging into the shadows under his eyes. “You don’t understand, Rose,” he says, and the way his voice goes soft around her name is enough to break her heart. “You only have one life. I don’t want you to spend it chasing after me. If I find you first—”

She shakes her head. “But that’s not gonna happen. It’s like he said,” and she finally lets herself lean a little closer to the leather-clad body that she’s so familiar with. “You’re just making paradoxes. Which means you’re making places I _can’t_ find you, yeah?”

It’s not an easy logical path for her to follow, even after months and months spent learning the ropes. Time travel is funny that way; the Doctor says her human mind just isn’t _meant_ to handle it, but she does her best. She wants it to make sense, even if that’s not possible.

But she knows she’s right when the other Doctor slumps in his chair, looking down into his cup of tea. He hasn’t taken so much as a sip. And she wants so _badly_ to ask if he takes sugar or milk, but something in her says that it wouldn’t be right.

She owes it to herself—to let herself learn it later, to let him teach her. To get to know him—the man who will become the Doctor—just the same as she’d gotten to know _her_ Doctor.

_His_ mug is half-empty, no surprise. He always prefers when she does the tea. Says it just tastes better. The knowledge bolsters her.

Rose’s hand is halfway across the table, stretching out to meet the other Doctor’s, when she stops it. She remembers the church, and losing her father; she’s _learned._ She makes a fist and says, “Doctor, listen.”

He obeys, looking up at her with those ancient, weary eyes.

“You need to go back to your TARDIS and keep saving the universe. It’s the only way that she—that _I’ll_ be able to find you again.” She swallows, trying to hold his gaze. She wants to promise to change her own future, to make this never have been, but it just wouldn’t be fair. Because she _can’t_ promise. “You have to trust me. Can you do that?”

He nods once, slowly. He moves like he’s unaware of his own body.

“If you know me at all, and I think—I think you _do,_ ” she murmurs, pausing to glance at her Doctor. He is gazing down at her with unflinching fondness, blue eyes crystal clear. It always takes her breath away, and Rose has to force herself to break the spell, to look back across the table. “You know that I’d never stop looking. Not until I found you again. I wouldn’t give up.”

There is an unmistakable ring of truth to her words. She can feel it down her spine, and in the way the Doctor stills both next to her and across from her.

“I want you to keep traveling, keep making the universe a safer, _better_ place. Somewhere I’ll be glad to come back to,” she goes on, mouth curving into a smile. She wonders if he can tell what she’s thinking: that she’d be glad to live in _any_ universe, so long as he’s there. “And I’ll find you again. I _will._ ”

She wonders if she’s said too much.

Maybe she has. But something in her _reaches_ for the man in front of her, the same way it always reaches for her Doctor.

And it doesn’t matter anyway, because the other Doctor is brightening. He still reminds her too much of the Doctor when she’d first met him—bitter and broken in ways she’s still coming to understand—but there is a shine in his eyes. Like her words have supplied him in something he was fundamentally lacking.

He grins, little lines and furrows forming around his eyes, and it’s so _familiar_ that she can feel already how easy it will be to love him. When the time comes.

“All right, Rose Tyler,” he declares. And he gets up from his chair, a vigor in his step that isn’t cheerful so much as manic, but at least there’s _life._ “I guess I’ll be waiting for you.”

He pauses, just within her reach. She could touch him with the tips of her fingers, just brush over his long coat, feel the fabric beneath her hand. She could put out her hand and feel two versions of the Doctor—two moments in time, one at her back and one at her front—all at once. A true paradox. But she doesn’t.

Still, she can see that he’s hesitating, too.

“Go on, then,” Rose replies, giving him one last smile. The hands woven into her hair are a soft, soothing reminder that this isn’t goodbye. Not for her, anyway. “And I’ll see you soon.”

Watching him walk back out of the same TARDIS doors he’d come crashing through before, Rose makes a promise to her future self: no matter how long she has to look—no matter how far she has to go—she’ll find the Doctor again.

She _will._

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gingerteaonthetardis on tumblr if you want to send me more prompts!


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